2
Life is a journey. Don’t be the road everyone drives over.
My commute won't be as stressful as it was since I'm only seven train stops away from the financial district now.There are so many positives qualities and benefits coming along with this new opportunity, and I haven't even stepped foot inside.
The train is pulling up just as I reach the underground level, and I hop right in, finding an empty seat next to a window, which never happens this time of morning.
The ride is less than fifteen minutes; I step off the subway, the escalator is working, and it's like I'm being lifted from the burdens of hell and placed down in front of a golden halo encircling Starbucks. "Thank you, universe."
I don't care how fancy an office is, the coffee always sucks. I had no coffee choice at the last job because there wasn't a Dunkin' or a Starbucks within four blocks in either direction. The office coffee was so bad, it tasted like burnt water. I didn't even know that was a thing, but it is—a very bad thing.
Already, I can tell this new job is a blessing.
As I'm making my way over to the Starbucks, I download the app to my phone, since I can now be a frequent customer, and I pre-order my coffee to have it waiting for me.Unbelievable. Just knowing that I can do this every single morning and avoid all lines as well as awkward interactions is the true definition of the word beautiful. I step inside, noticing a long line wrapped around the tables. All customers should get the app because I get to feel like a VIP and hop right over to where the folks are already waiting for their orders.
After two short minutes, the barista pronounces my name correctly (Way to go!), cream and sugar are already mixed into my coffee, and there's a cute little recyclable sleeve slipped into place—just how I like it.
Here's to another perfect momenttoday, I think to myself while taking the first sip.
I leave Starbucks without saying a word.Is this my life?I will walk into that office with the presence like I stepped off a set for a Viagra commercial all because Starbucks understands that there are people who don't like to communicate before nine.So smart. This is what marketing is all about; coffee drinkers need caffeine to feel alive but coffee drinkers don't want to talk before they feel alive—therefore, make the customers happy by allowing them to pick up their coffee without having to talk. This is genius. Whoever came up with this idea deserves an award for being the best introvert-supporter in the world.
With another warm sip of coffee dripping down my throat, I pull my phone out and check on the address and suite number of my destination. I tried to find the office on Google Maps last night, so I believe it's the building right across from the train station, which is very convenient for my perfect little life.
My speculation is accurate, and I'm at the right place and on time. The interviewer told me to take the elevator up to the ninth floor, and by the layout of the building map here in the lobby, it appears the company owns the entire floor. Not bad since Mick, the owner, made it sound like it was a small business, but who knows what that means these days. A small business can mean one person doing fifteen jobs out of their living room like Layla.
I take one more sip of coffee and open the glass door, branded with the name, Virtual Generation.
The brand speaks for itself when I walk in through the doors. Eclectic doesn't describe the ambiance, nor does the word, modern. It looks like someone hung a dozen wet paintings face down on the ceiling, and the excess paint then landed in an explosive mess on the floor. I'm open-minded when it comes to the arts, but this—someone was trying too hard—or couldn't decide on one direction, so went all in. Besides the paint splatters on the cement floor, there are seamless metal chairs, collages of quotes printed on the walls in between contemporary pieces of art, and lastly, I notice several bean bag chairs adhered to the walls, which are unusable. It's like I'm standing in the middle of Dr. Seuss land. All the perfection I experienced today is coming to a slow and painful halt.
No wait, I'm not supposed to say that.
Things are just getting good, Madelyn. Hang in there.
I reach the front desk, finding a young woman, who may or may not still be in high school, or kindergarten, judging by the Minnie Mouse ears she's wearing on her head. "Hi, Bonjour, Hola, Guten Tag, Namaste," she greets me in a high-pitched squeak.
"Hi," I reply. "Wow, is there a lot of international business coming in and out of here?" As soon as I ask the question, I realize she doesn't know who I am other than a random person who just walked through the front doors.
"Oh, no, we're just careful about avoiding discrimination. You never know, right?" Okay, I suppose she could have a point. Though, I'm not sure it's necessary to greet everyone with the five random languages she chose, but we'll go ahead and move forward.
"Sure, that makes sense," I say, my lips feeling stiff as I try to seem upbeat. "I'm—ah—"I should run, shouldn't I?No, no, I need a job or I'll be unemployed again.It's all good. "I'm Madelyn Wall, the new assistant fashion coordinator."
"Oh my goodnesssss," she says, stressing the s's to death. Minnie stands from the desk and clunks around the office in what sounds like large hollow shoes, which I now see they are. She has on Minnie Mouse heels that are ten sizes too big for her feet.What is happening here?She hugs me and taps my back. "You are so adorable. It's so very nice to meet you."
Shit. I'm a jerk.The poor girl might have an identity situation going on. Everyone has their thing. "The pleasure is all mine. Should I assume your name is Minnie?" I ask, trying to make light of the subject.
"Oh, gosh," she says, laughing while covering her mouth with her fingers spread apart. "No, I love Minnie Mouse. I wish my name was Minnie, but my name is Michelle."
"Ah, well, it's nice to meet you, Michelle. I'm supposed to meet with Mick Cale."
"Yes, Mick is expecting you. I'll tell him you are here." Minnie—Michelle—shuffles back around the desk and plops down into her seat. With more confusion than I've felt in—forever, I sit down on one of the metal slab chairs, which are as uncomfortable as they appear. It's like a block of ice running up the sides of my ass cheeks.
"Mickey!" Michelle screams. Wow. She could have sent him a message or walked down to his office to tell him I'm here, but screaming works too, I suppose. Oh no,please don't come out here dressed as Mickey Mouse. Please be a typical business person.
Here he is—the boss—a tall, younger man, dressed in a slim-fit black suit concealing a light-gray dress shirt, with a burnt orange (close enough to red) tie tucked into the jacket. At least he's not dressed in character like Minnie. I can only imagine what the other employees are like.
"Mick?" I ask, standing from the slab seat.
He reaches his hand out to greet me. "Yes, that would be me," he says with a cynical grin. Off the bat, if I had to guess, I'd say this guy is a person who has spent most of his life trying to be "that guy" and has a life goal of claiming the last laugh, but isn't quite there yet.
